


french silk and gold thread

by iihappydaysii



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, PWP, Spanking, tom does the spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:14:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27853178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iihappydaysii/pseuds/iihappydaysii
Summary: Lord John gets a "punishment" from his valet Tom Byrd for returning home with a torn coat.
Relationships: Tom Byrd/Lord John Grey
Comments: 5
Kudos: 34
Collections: Lord John Grey Cocoa and Kink 2020





	french silk and gold thread

**Author's Note:**

> for Lord John Grey cocoa and kink 2020

Tom Byrd scowled down at Grey, the waves of his hair lit by the glimmering candlelight. Grey knew what that scowl meant and the thought of it made his throat tight and his heart pound. Tom lifted Grey’s overcoat from the chair by his bedside and held it up.

“Do you see this me lord?” he inquired with a single raised eyebrow.

“It’s my coat,” Grey said dismissively. It was a poke. A prod. Meant for a single purpose and Grey could only hope his attempt would be successful.

“Quite,” Tom replied. “Your coat made of the finest materials, french silk and gold thread, and just look what’s happened to it. It’s nearly ruined.”

“It would be ruined fully if you were not so skilled a mending.”

Tom glared at him. “Do not try to flatter me, it will not get you out of trouble.” A flicker of a smile betrayed true feeling. Tom _wanted_ Lord John Grey in trouble, and Grey himself couldn’t think of anywhere he’d rather be than in trouble with Tom Byrd.

Tom’s fingers skimmed over the hole Grey had accidentally torn in the fabric. And it _had_ been an accident, just passing too close to a split log. When he’d heard the _rip,_ it had sent a thrill through his body and he’d had to press a wrist to the growing bulge between his legs.

He’d been distracted for the rest of the day—of course, he was still able to properly do his work—but his mind had been partially occupied by what would happen when he returned home and Tom saw what had been done to that fine french silk and gold thread.

Tom eyed him, hazel trailing down his body and stopping low. “Drop your breeches, me lord.”

Grey frowned, hesitated, pretending slight annoyance. They both knew he felt anything but annoyance. Still, Grey slowly unlaced his breeches and let them drop down around his ankles.

“Bend over,” Tom said, a tone of command in his voice that suggested he belonged in a far higher station than he did in actuality.

“ _Tom.”_

“I don’t know if you have time to waste, me Lord. But I certainly do not. Not with all this new mending I have to do. Let’s get this over with.”

Grey sighed and leaned over the bed, his long shirt draping down to hide his arse. A hand fell on his backside and then slid up, exposing his flesh to the cool air of the room. Grey shivered and hid his smile in the linens.

Tom trailed one of his fingers over bare flesh and tutted. “Now, how many… how many do you think it will take for you learn to your lesson? Ten? Twenty?”

 _A million,_ Grey thought wildly, his cockstand aching and heavy, pinned between his body and the bed.

“You decide,” came Grey’s muffled voice.

Tom laugh softly, sliding his warm hand down between Grey’s cheek. “Quite right, me Lord. I _do_ decide.”

Grey felt the swoosh of air first, then the sharp smack of Tom’s hand against his right arse cheek. He yelped at the sting.

Tom hushed him softly, then swung his hand down quickly and slapped his other arse cheek even harder.

“Goddammit,” Grey spat, biting into the quilt.

“Perhaps next time you’ll think harder about ruining your nicest clothes and leaving me to fix them.”

 _Perhaps not._ Not if Tom intended on doing this again, these delicious quick slaps that started as pain but then spread warm through his body as a tingling pleasure.

The next two slaps came quick as whip, not even giving Grey the time to respond in any way. But the next were slower, harder, but not nearly as fast, and the only thing Grey could think to do, could think might keep him sane, was to shove his hand between himself and the bed and squeeze.

“No touching, me Lord,” Tom said, tugging Grey’s arm away and pinning it against his back. He leaned forward and whispered in Grey’s ear. “If you want to come from this, you will do it rutting against the mattress.”

Grey made a noise of frustration low in his throat, but commands from his valet were far better than even his own hand. He breathed out a sigh and thrust against the quilt. The friction was delicious.

Not nearly as delicious as the next hard spank or the one after that or the feeling of Tom releasing his pinned arm or the sound of Tom rubbing himself through his breeches or the low guttural sound of pleasure resonating from behind him.

Grey found himself wildly thrusting against the bed, balanced deliciously between the sting of each intense slap and the tingling building pleasure that left him moaning. Biting. Begging.

“Dear God, Tom,” Grey cried. “Please.”

Another slap. “Please, what me lord?”

“More. Harder,” was all Grey managed to say.

“I can do that.”

And so he did. One spank after another came in a storm-fierce torrent that brought burning tears of want to Grey’s eyes. He wanted to sob into the sheets. He was going to. He reveled in this. _Delighted_ in it. And the finish hit him before he even realized it. He shouted Tom’s name and he spilt all between the bed and his own body. The whole time the heavy slaps kept coming. One after the other. And it was perfect.

“There you go, me Lord,” Tom said, breathily, now smoothing a gentle hand over his sore skin. “Exceptionally done.”

This made Grey laugh low in throat and then turn over. Tom was stood there, looking down at him darkly, hand tugging his own prick. Ankles still imprisoned by his breeches, Grey slid to his knees, guided Tom’s hand away from himself and took the leaking cock between his lips.

Tom tasted like black olives, like salt, and red wine. The stretch of his lips was familiar, they’d done it more than enough times to be. Even out of his mind, still reeling and stinging, he could do this, use his mouth and tongue—occasional careful slide of his teeth over delicate skin—to make Tom pant and groan and grip his hand into Grey’s hair. Tom thrust deeper and Grey let him, _loved_ letting him.

Tom spilled there, at the back of Grey’s throat, and Grey swallowed around him.

With that, Tom laughed, then sank to the floor in front of Grey.

“Thank you, me Lord.”

Grey leaned back against the bed and grinned at his valet. “After what I did to that coat, I should be the one to thank you, even though I _will_ have trouble sitting tomorrow.”


End file.
